Masquerade
by miss-terra-incognita
Summary: They may not be the best heroes for the job, but they're the only ones who showed up. This series of oneshots is set during and after the events of High-Flying, Adored and gives us a look at the lives and adventures of Yuuri and Victor's compatriots in the crime-fighting underworld of superheroism. Join them as they explore life, love, and vigilante justice!
1. Hell on Wheels

**A/N:** This collection is a sequel to High-Flying, Adored, which tells the story of Victor and Yuuri's awkward fumblings with vigilantism and secret identities. These oneshots can be read independently, but I recommend that you at least skim that story first!

* * *

There are too many of them.

Yuri swears viciously, claws raking across one mobster's face even as one foot kicks back into the chest of a man approaching from the rear. The men have him cornered in a dead-end alley, and they're armed with knives.

Which on one hand, at least they're not guns. On the other, you know. Knives.

Ducking under a particularly vicious swipe, Yuri catches the perpetrator with an uppercut. Punching is usually Yuri's last resort because he weighs about as much as a wet paper towel, and your typical garden variety thug is about seven feet of steel-reinforced bad attitude.

As expected, the punch doesn't do much more than make the man irritable. He bears down on Yuri and the much smaller man braces himself, eyes darting left to right and searching for an escape-

Instead, he hears a roar. It's low and guttural and leonine and for a moment he thinks, deeply confused, I didn't know I could do that.

Then a headlight illuminates the alley. The thug blocking Yuri leaps aside to avoid an intimate rendezvous with a steaming front tire, and Yuri Plisetski is staring into the visor of a featureless black helmet.

"Get on." The command is sharp. Urgent. Yuri allows himself maybe two seconds of doubt before swinging onto the motorcycle behind his rescuer, gripping the back of the seat with claws that sink deep into the thick leather. The rider guns his engine, kicking off and swinging the bike toward the mouth of the alley. One of the thugs staggers toward the bike, murder in his eyes, but the mystery man slams a fist into his stomach and he goes down hard.

In seconds, the mobsters are a distant memory.

The rider doesn't speak. The city flies by around them, bright lights and lurid colors and menacing oceans of shadow. Yuri watches the reflections of neon signs gleaming in the bike's chassis and wonders what the fuck is going on.

Finally, the rider pulls his bike to a stop near a bustling street. They're just out of sight, tucked behind a sign advertising some kind of dating app.

'Meeting new people,' the ad insists, 'has never been so easy!'

Yuri stares up at the dark visor and thinks, yeah right.

"Thanks," he says gruffly, wishing he had pockets to stuff his hands into. "For getting me out."

The rider doesn't answer, just watches him squirm.

"So, uh." What the fuck is he supposed to say? "Are you a superhero too?"

A nod.

"What's your power?"

The man lifts his gloved hand and for a moment Yuri thinks he's waving, but then he notices the dull gleam of a set of brass knuckles against the dark leather.

"Oh."

Another long, uncomfortable silence. Maybe the guy can't talk, Yuri speculates. Maybe he just doesn't want to.

Finally, Yuri huffs out a breath. "Look I know you can't tell me who you are. Secret identities or whatever. But-"

Hands reach up to grip the bottom of the helmet, and in the next moment Yuri is looking up into dark eyes and a somber face.

"Otabek Altin," the man says, working the brass knuckles off of his right hand and extending it toward Yuri.

Yuri blinks down at the hand, almost stunned. Then, after a moment, he takes it.

"It's, um. It's good to meet you."

* * *

 **A/N:** I can't help myself! Who knew superhero AUs were so addictive?


	2. Flying Solo

**Summary:** There are plenty of things in the world valuable enough that people want to steal them. Wallets, diamonds, cell phones. Dogs, now and then. Different things have value to different people, and the more value they ascribe to it the more likely they are to steal it.

You should be very flattered if someone takes the time to steal your heart. They must think it's worth an awful lot.

* * *

People like to say that twins are linked somehow, that they have a kind of supernatural connection that binds them even across great distances. Of course most people think this is hokum and confirmation bias, and by in large they're right.

Sara just wishes they were right about her, specifically.

 _Where are you?_ The question is frantic through the bond.

 _Didn't you read the note?_ she snaps back, scowling at the chain-link fence in front of her. She's never been a great climber. Luckily, she doesn't have to be. A little focus, a little effort…

She pushes off from the ground and floats gently into the air.

 _Of course I read the note!_

 _Then you know where I am._ Sara rolls her eyes, keeping her primary concentration on the task at hand. It's not flying, exactly. She and Michele have been able to move objects with their minds since they were infants, often using it to entertain each other or play tricks on the other kids at daycare. It wasn't until they were ten that they realized the body is just a big, awkwardly-shaped object.

 _'Out' is not a place, Sara!_

 _Micky,_ she thinks viciously, _if you keep distracting me you're gonna get me killed. Is that what you want? A dead sister?_

She feels intense distress from the other end of their bond, and then the connection goes blank.

Sara feels a little guilty, but it's not like she has a choice. Michele is cripplingly overprotective, refusing to allow her to face even the most petty criminal when they go out on their midnight escapades. But she isn't made of glass, and she knows that without real experience she won't be much good as a superhero.

Her feet barely touch the ground on the other side of the fence before Sara is moving again, dodging into the shadows. Her gunmetal-grey costume is perfect for camouflage, though she failed to talk Michele out of adding silver accents in a mock-armor pattern. Stupid. Style over substance.

There's movement in the jewelry store, which is unusual because most jewelry stores aren't open at three in the morning. Sara pushes experimentally on the back door and it swings open, already unlocked.

She sets her jaw. Slips inside.

When she's made her way to the front room, she sees a dark shape looming over one of the long glass cases. Black-gloved fingers dance over the smooth surface and, with a flourish, produce a very slender tool from one skintight sleeve.

A glass cutter. This thief is no first-timer.

Just as the blade is set against the glass, Sara focuses and _lifts_.

The thief lets out a startled yelp as they're lifted off the floor, glass cutter bouncing off the case with a soft _ping_. Perfect! This is easy. The criminal is already incapacitated, all Sara needs to do now is tie her up and call the authorities from the jewelry store phone. Tidy.

She flips the light on.

She stares.

Floating gently in the middle of the jewelry store with an unimpressed look on her face is the most beautiful girl she's ever seen. Long-limbed, lithe, with red curls floating around her masked face. She's wearing a black catsuit, unadorned except for a few sensible pockets here and there.

Pockets, Sara thinks distantly. Why didn't we think of pockets?

"Well well," the thief purrs in a thick Russian accent, eyes glittering in the fluorescent light, "If it isn't half of the Roman Templar. Where's Thing Two?"

Sara thinks a little bitterly that the burglar is awfully unconcerned for someone who's about to bump her head against the ceiling.

"Both of us, for one jewel thief? You think pretty highly of yourself. I don't need Apollo here to take you down." She smirks. "After all, you're already incapacitated."

"I am, aren't I?" The thief pouts, tapping her chin with one gloved hand. "You're awfully good."

Sara shrugs, doing her best not to gloat. Gloating is for supervillains. "I get the job done."

"Mm," her captive agrees. "You certainly do." There's something suggestive in her tone, something that makes Sara flush a little pink. The thief continues. "Artemis, right? So are you and your brother knights, or gods? I never quite figured out the theme."

Letting out a puff of breath, Sara rolls her eyes. "Don't ask me. My brother couldn't decide, so he just went with both."

One red eyebrow quirks up slightly. "A little ostentatious."

"Clearly you've never met my brother. Ostentatious is an understatement."

A bright laugh startles Sara, and she blinks owlishly up at the thief. The girl is grinning down at her, eyes full of mischief and delight. "I like you, Artie," she says, and her voice has lost its seductive purr. It's light and casual, like they've just met on a bus.

"Uh." Sara tilts her head to the side. "…Thanks?"

"Don't mention it."

Then the thief flips back one of the tiled panels on the ceiling and grabs the edges of the opening, lifting herself through it. Sara is so shocked that she doesn't react right away, mouth falling open as she stares at the empty space where the thief was floating just a moment ago.

Her hesitation only lasts a second, but by the time she floats up to the ceiling in pursuit of the thief she's nowhere to be seen.

Letting out a huff of frustrated breath, Sara searches the crawlspace thoroughly anyway. Empty of course. Well, she thinks as she drops back down into the showroom, at least the thief didn't manage to snatch any diamonds.

Which is when she notices a perfectly circular hole in one very empty jewelry case. She swears loudly, slapping a hand over her face. Of course! A misdirect. She's an idiot. The jewel thief probably just slipped down into the next room, then doubled back to make off with the goods while Sara was searching the crawlspace. Stupid.

It's then that she notices the case isn't as empty as she at first thought. She reaches in through the hole, fingers closing around a thin piece of card stock and lifting it out to inspect it delicately.

There's a phone number, she notes. And a bright red kiss that matches the thief's lipstick exactly.

It's signed, _Baba Yaga_.

Sara tries very hard not to get all fluttery about it as she makes her way back out into the shadowy night. Real superheroes don't get flustered over flirty jewel thieves.

When she's a block away she pulls out the card again, and acknowledges that maybe this one does.

* * *

 **A/N:** I really like writing Sara and Mila. And we have our first skating villain!


	3. Forever is Relative

**Summary:** If you've ever taken a math class or waited for a bus in the rain, you already know what eternity is. It's nothing special.

* * *

"Who is this friend you want me to meet, Victor?"

Victor grins back at his boyfriend, who is peering up at him suspiciously. "A friend," he answers evasively.

"Yes, I know. You said that. What's his name?"

Victor just winks. They round a corner and come to a sidewalk cafe, one of the first to put its streetside furniture out now that the winter is well and truly over. It's early though, and only one person is enjoying the crisp sunshine.

"Christophe," Victor hollers, waving enthusiastically. Yuuri's eyes go wide.

"Christophe Giacometti?" he asks, "The Worlds gold medalist?" His question is answered when the man at the table glances up from his book and peers over a pair of round reading glasses.

"Victor," he says warmly, setting his book down and waving them over to the table. "It's been too long! A year, hm?"

"Longer," Victor replies with a chuckle. "Chris, this is Yuuri Katsuki."

"Ah yes," Chris says with a delighted chuckle as he gives Yuuri's hand a firm shake. "The little minx who stole your heart."

Yuuri flushes to the tips of his ears, but manages to stutter out a reply. "U-Um. Yes?"

"Sit, sit," Chris insists, waving at the empty chairs. A waiter comes to take their order, and Yuuri tries pointedly not to notice the way Chris's eyes rake over the man's well-muscled frame.

The waiter definitely notices, if the pronounced sashay of his hips as he walks back to the kitchen is any indication.

"So, what brings two retired figure skaters to Switzerland? You're not here to break my kneecaps, are you? Get back in the game?"

Victor laughs. "No, actually. And you can stop playing coy."

Pouting a little, Chris shrugs elegantly. "All right," he allows as he leans back in his seat. "So then. Victor and Yuuri are here to see the sights." Taking a long sip of his coffee, he quirks a brow. "What are Snowcap and Eros here to do?"

Yuuri turns a vicious glare on Victor. "You told him?" he hisses. "He's a stranger!"

Victor raises his hands in surrender. "I didn't tell him! Chris just knows things."

"Please," the man interjects, flapping a hand at them. "Chris is a world-famous figure skater. The best, incidentally, since Victor's retirement. The Historian knows things."

Yuuri freezes in place, eyes turning wide. It's such a cute expression that Victor can barely restrain himself from kissing his beloved on the spot.

"The Historian?" Yuuri breathes.

"Ah," Chris says loudly, "Your coffees!"

The waiter sets down two cappuccinos, winking at Chris before disappearing again.

"There," Chris amends, tucking what Yuuri suspects is the waiter's phone number into his pocket before continuing. "Now we can talk. Yes, The Historian. Though really Chris is fine."

"But." Yuuri sounds a little strangled. "You're supposed to be-"

"Five-hundred years old," Chris confirms cheerfully. "And I don't look a day over twenty-five."

"I saw your junior skate-"

Victor is ready for the next trick, but Yuuri almost chokes on his own tongue. In the space between two breaths Chris vanishes, and is replaced by a ten-year-old boy in ill-fitting clothes.

"What," he says innocently. "The one where I looked like this?" His hat slips down over his blond curls, and he pushes it back up to smile at them. Then Chris is back, the smile looking much less innocent on his adult face.

"Being immortal would be awfully difficult," he says, "If I didn't have a few tricks up my sleeve." He tilts his head to the side, steepling his fingers. "Now," he continues, taking in Victor's gleeful expression and Yuuri's shocked horror. "To business. You need information, and I've had several lifetimes to collect contacts. What do you need to know?"


	4. Asimov

**Summary:** _Deus ex machina_ , or _god from the machine_ , is a phrase that has been used for all kinds of things. A scholarly way to scorn a plot device, a vaguely-haunting means to spice up your science fiction thriller. Dead languages are like that; they always make you sound sophisticated or spooky.

Ask a drama student to define the phrase however, and they will give you a very different interpretation. It means an actor, they'll tell you. A rather bad actor in a crude Greek mask, holding onto the edge of a crane for dear life because he drew the short straw and it's his turn to play Zeus.

* * *

"Sorry," Emil says sheepishly as he electrocutes the last of the bank robbers with a gentle tap. "Hopefully it won't scar. The ambulance will be here soon, so sit tight okay?"

The robbers are unresponsive. Mostly because they're unconscious.

Shrugging, Emil lowers the man to the ground and makes sure he isn't in an uncomfortable position. He checks the rest of them carefully, taking pulses and making sure none of them are sporting any serious injuries. He rights a potted plant one of the robbers knocked over in the struggle.

Satisfied, he dusts off his hands on the metallic blue of his costume. "All right! That should do it."

* * *

Moments later the police arrive on the scene, sirens wailing, only to find that the suspects have already been incapacitated and arranged neatly on their sides in the safety position. There's a note, apologizing for the mess.

It has a smiley face on it.

* * *

Emil's apartment isn't really an apartment. It's an abandoned laboratory, all polished chrome and glass. Very modern, very classy. He likes it. He's lived here all his life.

Hoisting himself up onto a chrome examination table, he feels around his stomach for what he knows will be there. Sure enough the ragged edges of a bullet wound meet his fingertips, and he makes a face.

Crap. Should've been more careful.

A sharp twist and pull has the synthetic skin sliding back, the damaged square lifting away easily to reveal that a warped bullet is lodged in the clean chrome chassis underneath. Emil scowls down at it, but the damage isn't too bad. Some pliers, a soldering iron and a fresh dermis sheet and he'll be good as new.

He gets to work.


	5. Enemy of My Enemy

**Summary:** You can be a supervillain and still be a good person, but it makes things complicated and causes a certain amount of confusion among your friends. And your enemies. And that girl you keep hoping will text you back.

* * *

Mila counts out the last of the diamonds and grins, hopping up from her chair to do a little pirouette. "Georgi!" she calls, dancing out into the common area that occupies most of their two-bedroom apartment. "We're going out!"

Her roommate jumps as she bursts into his room, spilling a bottle of some unknown substance on his leg and yelping loudly. "Mila," he whines, pawing at the stain with a towel, "Do you know how hard it is to get toadstool extract out of your clothes?"

"Yes," she drawls, coming to stand behind him with her hands on her hips. "I remember. You ruined two of my blouses with it. What are you cooking up?"

His eyes slant away and she groans. "Oh Georgi. It's not a love potion, is it?"

"No!" he replies, aghast. "Mila I'm a hedgewitch, not a monster!"

"Uh-huh." She narrows her eyes at the contents of the fondue pot Georgi has repurposed. It's not quite a cauldron-it has little flowers on it-but she knows firsthand that it works just fine. "So why is it pink?"

He mutters something under his breath and she leans closer, raising an inquisitive brow. "Hm? Didn't catch that."

"I said it's lotion," he confesses, poking at it with a birch wand. "Mother used to swear by it. Supposed to take years off the face, but I don't think I got the incantation right. It keeps-"

A cloud of black smoke belches up out of the fondue pot and Mila only just manages to jump back in time to avoid being singed. Georgi, unsurprised, waves an irritable hand at the acrid smoke. "There. It keeps doing that. How am I supposed to make a thoughtful gift for my beloved-"

There it is. "She dumped you Georgi, get over it-"

"-if I can't even get the spell right?"

Mila spins him around in his swivel chair, glaring into his eyes. "Georgi," she says firmly, "I just got back from Italy with half a fortune in diamonds. We are both young, beautiful, single-" She ignores his little wail. "-supervillains, and we are going out. So put on something cute and meet me at the front door in five. Got it?"

Georgi pouts for a whole three seconds, then heaves a melodramatic sigh. "Fine," he grumbles, and waves a hand at himself almost carelessly. His work clothes-a thick shirt and jeans under a heavy leather apron-vanish, to be replaced by a shockingly purple button-down and pants just this side of too tight.

Mila nods approvingly as he goes for his makeup bag. "No mascara," she tells him, ducking out of the room to make her own preparations. "If you cry tonight I don't wanna know about it."

* * *

St. Petersburg is chilly at night, even in mid-spring. Mila laughs as Georgi burrows a little deeper into his scarf, elbowing him lightly as they make their way through city proper toward one of the more popular clubs. "Come on, are you Russian or not? It's not even winter."

Georgi is about to reply when he stops in his tracks. A moment later Mila hears what he's already heard. Somewhere nearby, someone is struggling for their life.

There's no screaming. That's what gives away how serious it is. If the street were just a little more crowded, she and Georgi wouldn't hear it at all. It's fabric scraping, and ragged breathing, and the unmistakeable sound of soft impacts in vulnerable places.

Georgi's eyes meet hers, and she nods. Thieves they might be, but they have a code. They vanish into the alley, already shedding layers.

* * *

The gang consists of three men and two women, all large and all dressed in black. There's another man, not quite so broad, lying on the pavement at their feet. He gasps for breath, kept still by a booted foot on his chest.

"Should have paid," one of the thugs drawls, slipping a knife from its sheath.

"Should have been clever," says another, leaning forward until the man wheezes at the pressure on his chest.

"Should-"

A purple mist fills the alley, so sudden and thick that it cuts the thugs off mid-gloat. They wave at it frantically, trying to see through the obfuscation, but Mila isn't waiting around for them to get their bearings. She drops down behind one of the men, wrapping a strong arm around his neck in a viselike chokehold.

Georgi isn't far behind her. A gout of flame tells her that he's set one of the women's coats on fire, and Mila has to suppress a giggle as the woman sets fire to one of her partners in her own shrieking confusion.

Hup. No time for laughs. The man she's clinging to twists forward in a surprising show of agility, throwing her easily. She spins into it, dancing away from his grasping hands as he tries to follow through with another hold.

"Pushy," she chides, and clocks him hard in the temple.

An engine roars, and for a moment Mila worries that the men have called for reinforcements. She isn't sure whether to be pleased or irritated when the mist clears slightly to reveal two figures, one in gunmetal and white, the other in black leather and a motorcycle helmet.

Polecat tilts his head to one side, clearly trying to make sense of the mess of flailing limbs in front of him. "…Baba Yaga? Witchboy?"

It's not the first time they've crossed paths. Polecat and Snowcap have been responsible for several of Mila and Georgi's more miserably failed heists, and the latter for some of the former's defeats. Still, the current situation is giving both groups pause.

Mila blinks down at the man groaning at her feet. "…This isn't what it looks like?"

"Really?" Polecat asks with a snort. "You're not beating up a bunch of Bratva thugs?"

"Actually," Georgi calls from his perch on the chest of an unconscious gangster, "It's exactly what it looks like."

The motorcycle helmet scans between the two of them for a moment, then the shoulders beneath it give a careless shrug. He and Polecat exchange a few quiet words.

"…Right," Polecat says, looking as confused as Mila feels. "Well. Um. It looks like you guys have this… under control." He nods decisively, swinging a leg over the motorcycle. As the engine revs and they peel out of the mouth of the alley, he swings around to point a threatening finger back at them.

"But watch out next time, or I'll feed Witchboy his magic wand!"

Then they're gone.

Mila punches out one of the thugs who looks like she might be considering opening her eyes. "Well, that was awkward."

"Mm."

"That was incredible!"

Glancing up, Mila finally remembers the civilian. "Uh."

"Amazing!" He staggers to his feet, grinning widely and clearly star-struck. "I didn't know this city had so many superheroes!"

"Oh," Georgi says, splaying his hands across his chest in obvious affront. "We're not superheroes."

"What?" The man blinks owlishly up at him. "But-"

"We're the bad guys," Mila explains patiently.

"You… are?"

"Very bad," Georgi agrees.

"The worst."

The man stares at them for a long, silent moment of utter incomprehension.

Finally, Mila smiles sunnily at him. "You take care!"

Georgi pats the man's uninjured shoulder. "Stick to populated areas, all right?"

"Use the buddy system!"

They're gone before the man can say another word. It's a relief, really. If they'd stuck around he might have tried to thank them.

* * *

Later, after the club, they run into one of Mila and Georgi's old rinkmates at a slightly-seedy dumpling shop. He's towing a friend, a little taller and a little older, into the shop behind him.

"Yuri!" she greets enthusiastically. "I thought you were out of town!"

He scowls, but joins them at the table. "I was. Just got back a couple weeks ago."

"Oh?" Mila leans forward in her seat. "Is it good to be back?"

Yuri's eyes flicker toward his silent companion. Mila can't be sure, but she thinks she sees something like a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"…Could be worse."


	6. Amp it Up

**Summary:** You take the high notes, I'll take the low notes. Harmony is easy and you make me want to sing.

* * *

"Bass! Catch!"

Leo looks up. There's a civilian tumbling out of the sky, screaming bloody murder. Someday he's going to convince Guang-Hong that not everyone likes being flung through the air at high speeds.

"Easy," he says as he catches the woman effortlessly. She's out of breath, but otherwise unharmed. He sets her on her feet and points down the road. "Make tracks, okay? This thing is stumbling around like a frat boy on two-buck beer night."

She doesn't bother to nod, just runs. Smart girl.

Leo turns his attention back on the…

The thing.

They're still not sure what it is, honestly. It's big, greenish, and it keeps punching windows out of buildings. Of course when you live as close to a radioactive mine site as Leo and Guang-Hong do, this kind of thing just. Happens, every once in a while.

"Treble, on your three!"

Above him, Guang-Hong zips left. The falling billboard just barely misses him, and Leo lets out a little huff when he realizes that he himself won't be quite so lucky. He lifts his arms. Braces.

The billboard slams into the ground, flattening a couple of cars and making Leo stagger slightly. It weighs well over a thousand pounds, but he's lifted heavier. An awkward little grapple is all it takes to shift the massive thing aside, and then he's dusting off his costume and glancing around for the monster.

"Incoming!"

Ah.

Diving out of the way, Leo stops in a roll and turns to face his unwieldy opponent. Guang-Hong is looping around its head, holding its attention and keeping it off-balance.

Leo smirks. Guang-Hong is good at that.

Swing and a miss, he thinks, as one of the creature's giant hands barely misses his airborne partner. But I won't.

Barreling forward at a run, Leo vaults off the roof of a totaled car and holds out his hands. A smaller pair grabs them, Guang-Hong pausing in his aerial ballet to fling his partner higher. He swings up, up, up…

At the top of his arc, he braces hard. Then he comes down on the creature's head like a cannonball.

After that, it's all clean-up. Something this large can cause considerable damage, and not everyone is as well-equipped to deal with it as Leo and Guang-Hong. They pile most of the refuse on a street corner, Leo breaking down anything too large to lift. It's not as bad as it could've been, really. Guang-Hong helps a few more people down from the upper floors of buildings with damaged or unsafe stairwells.

When the authorities show up there's an obligatory handshake. Guang-Hong and Leo stand side-by-side for the camera, smiling broadly, looking disheveled but victorious. They make a quick vertical exit to a round of cheers and applause.

Just as they're about to vanish over the rooftops, Leo's eyes lock with a dark pair watching him from below. Two men stand a little apart from the crowd on the ground; a small Japanese man and his taller, fair-haired companion. They're watching Leo and Guang-Hong with a kind of speculative intensity that makes Leo a little uncomfortable.

"Did you see those two guys?" he asks, when Guang-Hong sets him down on the roof of their apartment building. "The Asian one and the guy with the silver hair?"

"Come to think of it, yeah." Guang-Hong frowns thoughtfully, tugging a duffel back out from behind a water heater and passing Leo his clothes. "I don't think they showed up with the press, and they had this kind of…"

"Vibe," Leo finishes for him.

"Yeah."

They dress in thoughtful silence, then Guang-Hong breaks it with a jaw-cracking yawn. Leo laughs.

"Whoever they are, they can wait." He sweeps Guang-Hong up into his arms and ignores the half-hearted protests. "I think we've earned a nap."

Guang-Hong is asleep before they make it to the apartment.

* * *

 **A/N:** Sorry for the considerable delay on this chapter. I was actually hospitalized recently and couldn't be discharged until I'd had four blood transfusions and an emergency operation, so. As excuses go I've got a pretty good one.


End file.
